


Little Things

by thedustbinbaby



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 09:29:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14974250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedustbinbaby/pseuds/thedustbinbaby
Summary: They were voids, lost causes drifting aimlessly in the pool of despair and hopelessness. They were all too broken, and they knew it.





	Little Things

Ghosts of the past haunted him. Fires. Burning garages. Nobody around for help. These were the things that didn’t let him sleep on some nights, and almost drove him insane on a few. He’d wake up to the smell of something burning.

So, his only solution to escape from these ghosts was running. The only thing he was good at. Those scrawny limbs took him farther away from the ghosts, but somehow, wherever he ran and wherever he hid, they’d find him. So, he never stopped running. Foster home to foster home, subways to alley, he’d run, hide and repeat.

And one day, while running, he bumped into them. They weren’t special, too broken. Although that’d be rather hypocritical, so he didn’t judge them. And neither did they. They weren’t sweet, no kind words between them, no affectionate glances. But they’d driven the ghosts away, kept them at bay.

So he knew he needn’t run anymore, at least for now. They’d made him feel wanted. On cold winter nights, they’d come to him for warmth. Or sometimes, when the nightmares were too bone chilling.

He’d almost smile; how the only thing that made him different, the thing that killed his mother was also the only thing he had to make someone feel human again. He’d saddle up with his fire (all hot-stuff, wasn’t he?)

It wasn’t home. But it was the best he had. And in return, he gave them the best he could. Bonfires, s’mores, the warm hugs, all the little things.

_He was warmth._

* * *

 

The darkness is an abyss, devoid of anything human. That last part was certainly true. It had ripped him apart when she’d left him with nothing but the dark. And maybe one little figurine. Worthless little figurine. But it was also the only thing he’d had of her. So he’d kept it close to him at all times.

It was freedom she wanted. She felt too burdened with him. But little did she know, even freedom has its price. And this time, it was rather expensive. Something all the jewels in the Underworld couldn’t pay off.

And because of her freedom, and the price she _and he_ paid, he was now trapped in a cage with the darkness singing its dreadful lullaby. In time, he’d learn to live with it, and soon it became a part of him. He’d started to repel from all things bright now. The darkness never left; it was always there.

He’d lost all forms of happiness; he’d secluded himself from the living. The dead were his only companions now. At least they weren’t so happy and bright. The thing was, he didn’t hate happiness. He just had no idea where he could find it.

A wise man once quoted, “Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times if only one remembers to turn on the light.”  He was too weak to turn on the light though.

But they weren’t. They’d switched on the lights, making everything bright, and happy. And the darkness, well, shadows needed the light to stay alive.

He couldn’t make them feel happy, or warm. But he could comfort them. He’d take away their pains and sorrows, and throw them away into the darkness. It was the only place they could hide all their secrets and their pain. The darkness would envelop their pain and make it its own.

_He was comfort._

* * *

 

The dream of all the things that could have been never went. Sometimes, they’d turn into nightmares, the pain becoming too much for her.

She’d dream of a life that could have been, where she wasn’t the stoic Praetor but a girl who might not have had powers, but she had a family. Where her sister was still by her side, and _papa_ was alive, and her mother would occasionally talk to her.  One where there was a certain blue-eyed blond holding her hand at all times.

Instead she’d gotten the opposite.

A family, her craving, her weakness. Not many knew it but she was as fragile as china. It was the mask of hers that conned everyone into thinking she was a strong and brave warrior. If only they knew. That mask of hers revealed no secrets, no emotions and no weaknesses. And it was possibly because of this mask, that they came to her for shelter.

They came to her for protection; she made them feel safe. But then there were also times when her mask, the armour, where the wall she built would all break down, and beneath it, they’d see a doll made of china. And despite having seen this rare sight on a few occasions, they’d still come to her.

Because she was a soldier. And they were her family, and like mentioned before, family was her weakness.

So she stayed strong for them. She’d get up every day to face the rising sun, put on her armour, and protect them from whichever monster that posed a threat. The monsters on the outside and the inside. They needed her as much as she needed them.

_‘Ohana’ means family, and family means that no one gets left behind._

_She was safety._

* * *

 

The Fates loved messing around the lives of young demigods, didn’t they? It was a joke for them. But not him.

He didn’t think it was funny when he was appointed cabin leader once his brother died. Nope, it was cruel. And rather ironical. He’d been another victim of war, a pawn lost in the selfish games the Gods indulged in.

A Healer. That’s what most people knew him by. He saved countless lives during both the wars. But irony had played its hand. He couldn’t save the person he’d wanted to save most. Then what was the point of this power of healing?

It was this question that didn’t let him sleep on countless nights, that made him question his whole existence here. Sometimes, he wondered if he could end it all. It did lie in his hands, after all.

And then, there were 3. Patients, that is. Dark-eyed and dark-haired. Apart from that, they didn’t have much in common. (He’d missed out on the expression that he’d seen countless times, mostly in the mirror.)

They asked him to heal them. A scratch, a twisted ankle, a broken heart. And although he knew he could never heal them entirely, just as he couldn’t heal himself, he knew he was also their only option. Their best chance at being somewhat whole, if not entirely. He was the only healer they could rely on.

_He was their remedy._

* * *

 

They were voids, lost causes drifting aimlessly in the pool of despair and hopelessness. They were all too broken, and they knew it.

Which is why all they could give each other was little pieces of themselves. Tiny little fragments. But in the end, it was the little things that mattered.


End file.
